It was a delightful day, warm, yet bracing: a day on which the peasant,
after a hearty sleep, jumps up as he wakes, and—his prayers first
said—sets to work with scarce the shadow of a yawn.
A huge red globe was slowly ascending the sky, on whose immeasurable
expanse, amongst a few thin filaments of haze, there floated cluster on
cluster of woolly clouds.
The breeze bustled about, with the air of a farmer calling his household
up at dawn; rousing the limp corn, blowing away and dispersing the
mists, tossing about the overhanging branches, rushing round the
orchards and dashing in and scattering the last cherry-blossoms like
snow upon the ground.
Lipka too was waking and getting up swiftly. Many a dishevelled head
peeped out upon the world with drowsy eyes: some were washing; not a few
half-dressed women carried water to their houses. Here a man was
splitting logs; there carts were being wheeled out into the roadway.
Smoke rose in festoons from the chimneys, and lie-abeds were rated by
shrill tongues.
Early it was. The eastern sun was not more than a man’s height in the
sky, and shooting its ruddy rays aslant through the orchard-trees; yet
everybody was already in lively motion.
The wind had fled away somewhere; they enjoyed a pleasant calm, a fresh
balmy morning: the sun played upon the waters, from every roof the dew
dripped in pearly drops, swallows swept through the clear air, storks
seeking a regale flapped away from their nests. Chanticleer beat his
wings and crowed lustily on the hedges, and cackling geese led their
fledgelings down to the rose-red pond. In the cow-sheds the cattle
lowed: around them and about the yards, cows were being hurriedly
milked. From every enclosure they were driving oxen into the roads, and
they lumbered along, bellowing lazily, and rubbing themselves against
trees and fences; while sheep that went by, lifting their heads and
bleating, flocked to the middle of the ways amid clouds of dust. All
these were hurried to the open space in front of the church, where
elderly peasants on horseback, cracking whips and swearing to the top of
their bent, assembled the scattering droves and flocks, and urged the
laggards forward.
Somewhat after these came the gooseherds, driving their snowy gaggling
bands, or one leading a cow, or taking out a hobbled horse to feed in
the fallows.
All these, however, had soon passed out, and the rest of the villagers
were making ready to go to the fair; this was about a week after the
men’s return from prison. Everything in Lipka had little by little
returned more or less to its usual state.
Not that all was yet as it should be. They were still rather indolent,
often lying too long abed. Some paid too frequent visits to the
tavern—to be abreast of the news, they said; and not a few would
squander half a day going about and gossiping: others would scamp their
most pressing work. To get into gear again, when once out, was no easy
matter, after such a spell of forced inactivity. But things were
improving daily: the tavern had fewer and fewer guests on work-days, for
want had caught men by the throats, and was forcing them to labour in
the sweat of their brows.
All the same, as that day there was a fair in Tymov, they preferred to
go there and put the work off.
Besides, the days of dearth before harvest-time had begun early and with
such severity that a bitter cry now arose in most huts. Whatever, then,
they still had to sell, they took in all haste to the fair. And others
also went, but only to chat with their neighbours and have a look round,
and perhaps drink a nip of vodka.
Everyone had his own troubles; and where should people find comfort, or
pour out their complaints, or seek words of good advice, unless either
at the fair, or at the local festival?
So, no sooner had the cattle been all driven out to graze, those that
had carts got them ready, and those that had none started off on foot.
The poorest were first on the road. Filipka, to her sorrow, drove six
old geese before her; she had to sacrifice them. Her husband had fallen
sick on returning, and she had nothing to put in the pot.
Some _Komorniki_, too, were taking heifers that were but recently with
calf. Misery has long legs and sharp claws; and Gregory the Wrymouth had
to sell a milch-cow, though he possessed eight acres; while his
neighbour Joseph Vahnik was driving a sow with all her farrow.
They had to keep things going as best they could. More than one was so
hard up that he was forced to sell his best horse. For instance, Gulbas.
He owed Balcerkova fifteen roubles; she had brought an action and
obtained a sentence against him. So, amid the tears of his family, the
poor wretch went off astride of his chestnut mare to sell it.
Wagon after wagon rolled on close together. Well-to-do farmers were also
taking some of their possessions there: they had to pay their taxes, as
the Voyt reminded them. Many goodwives likewise were carrying things to
the fair: hens clucked under their aprons in carts; and those on foot
had eggs or butter in their kerchiefs. Some bore on their shoulders
articles of holiday attire, or pieces of linen for sale.
Mass had been said earlier than usual, and more hastily too; and Teresa
the soldier’s wife, who had to speak with the priest, came just as he
was leaving church for his breakfast. She durst not accost him then, and
stood waiting outside the garden palings for him to come out; but before
she could reach him, he had got into the britzka and driven away to
Tymov.
She sighed, looking sorrowfully after him, as he went up the poplar
road, whence a cloud of dust continually arose, to settle down in the
fields around: the carts clattered on as before, and a thin line of red
petticoats, in Indian file by the roadside, twinkled now and again among
the trees. Presently Lipka relapsed into silence. The mill, the smithy,
were closed; shortly the roads were also deserted, and all that remained
at home were busy at work in the gardens, or pottering about the
enclosures.
Teresa went home in sore trouble.
She lived beyond the church, close to Matthew, in a bit of a hut
consisting of one large room and the half of a passage! At the division
of the property, her brother had halved the cabin, and carried his share
away to rebuild it on his own land. The sawn timbers of the roof and
walls stood out like gaunt ribs against the soot-begrimed chimney.
Nastka saw her from her threshold, there being but a narrow strip of
orchard between them.
“Well? well? has he read your letter?” she cried, running to her.
Teresa explained her disappointment.
“I fancy the organist is able to read writing. He could make it out.”
“Certainly; but how can I go empty-handed?”
“Take him a few eggs.”
“Here I have ducks’ eggs only; Mother has taken the others to sell.”
“No matter; he won’t refuse ducks’ eggs.”
“I would fain go; but I fear so much! If I but knew what is written
there!”... She took from her bosom a letter of her husband, which the
Voyt had brought her from the office the day before. “What can there be
in that letter?”
Nastka took the grimy paper from her hands and, sitting down on the step
of the stile, while Teresa seated herself on the upper bar, made a
painful attempt to read it. Teresa, with her hands on her chin, gazed in
terror at the cabalistic signs that Nastka was trying to spell out. But
she could make out no more than “Praised be Jesus Christ!” at the
beginning.
“I cannot read any farther: ’tis useless. But Matthew would manage, no
doubt.”
She flushed a deep purple, and returned in a faint voice: “O Nastka! I
do entreat you, tell him naught of this letter!”
“Were it but in print! I can read any book, I know the letters
perfectly.—But I can make nothing of these strokes and crooks and
curls.... Just like a fly dipped into ink, and crawling over the paper.”
“But, Nastka, you’ll not tell him?”
“Only yesterday I said to you that I could not be mixed up in this.—But,
if your man is coming home, all will have to come out!” she added,
rising to her feet.
Teresa could not answer a word; the tears she was trying to keep back
choked her.
Nastka withdrew, rather out of humour, calling her fowls as she went;
and Teresa, making up five ducks’ eggs in a bundle, went to the
organist’s.
She was a good while getting there, stopping as she did every while, and
slinking about in the shade, and staring at the incomprehensible symbols
before her.
“Perchance he is returning....”
She writhed in the grip of dread, her knees shook, her heart throbbed
wildly; with misty eyes she staggered on, as one in sore need of
succour; more than once she had to lean against the trees not to fall.
“And perhaps he is only writing about money!...”
Her steps began to flag; the letter had become a burden, a torment to
her; she was always shifting it from hands to bosom and back again.
Nobody seemed at home at the organist’s. All the doors were open, all
the rooms empty. One window had a petticoat hung up in lieu of curtain,
and a sound of snoring proceeded thence. She advanced timidly towards
the passage, looking round her at the yard. A servant-girl was sitting
at the kitchen-door, churning butter and driving flies away with a
bough.
“Where’s your mistress?”
“In the garden; ye’ll hear her soon!”
Teresa remained standing there, crushing the letter in her hand, and
drawing her kerchief forward over her head, for the sun was now shining
directly from above the sheds.
Fowls cackled noisily from the priest’s yard, separated only by a hedge
from the other: ducks were riotous in pools, little turkeys plaintively
clamorous near the hedge; big gobbling turkey-cocks, with drooping
wings, made furious onsets at sucking-pigs wallowing in the mire; and
pigeons circled in air, slowly settling—a snow-white cloud—on the red
roof.
Teresa’s eyes were wet. She averted her face to ask:
“Is the organist within?”
“Where else? His Reverence is away, so he has lain down to sleep again.”
“The priest has gone to the fair, no doubt?”
“Ah, yes; to purchase a bull.”
“What, has he not possessions enough?”
“Whoso has much wants more,” the servant grunted.
Teresa was silent awhile. It was hard that she should have so little,
and others so much!
“Mistress is coming!” the servant announced, working the dasher up and
down in the churn so violently that the cream spurted out.
“’Tis all your doing, lazy boy! you let the horse into the clover on
purpose because ye had no mind to go as far as the fallows!” she was
heard to scream. “Two rods of clover eaten! But I’ll tell your uncle at
once, you good-for-nothing, and you’ll get such a beating!”
“But I drove it to the fallows myself, I did, and tethered it to the
ring!”
“No lies! Your uncle will have a talk with you!”
“But I tell you, Aunt, I did not drive any horse there.”
“Who did, then? His Reverence, eh?” she asked sarcastically.
“Ye have guessed, Aunt. Aye, the priest has grazed his horses there,”
the lad replied, raising his voice.
“Are you mad? Hold your tongue, lest someone hear.”
“I will not! To his face I’ll say it!—I went at daybreak to fetch the
horses in; the bay one was lying down, the mare feeding: both just where
I had left them last night. I loosed them and mounted the bay one, when
I saw horses grazing in our clover. It was grey dawn.—I rode on aslant,
nigh the priest’s garden, to head them off; so I passed along Klemba’s
pathway. And then I saw the priest saying his breviary, and looking
round, and whipping his horses further and further into the clover!”
“Hush, Michael!... What an unheard-of thing!... The priest himself!... I
always said that last year’s hay.... But silence; here comes a woman.”
She waddled in hurriedly, and the organist called for Michael from under
his bed-clothes.
Teresa handed over her eggs, embraced the goodwife’s knees, and begged
to know the contents of her husband’s letter.
“Just wait a little.”
Some time later, they called her into the room. The organist, scantily
attired—in shirt and drawers only—was taking his morning coffee. He
began to read to her.
Her heart died within her as she listened. Yes, he—her husband—was
coming back at harvest-time, along with Kuba Yarchyk of Vola, and
Gregory, Boryna’s son! The letter was affectionate: he longed to see
her, asked about everyone at home, sent messages to his acquaintances,
and felt brimming over with gladness at the thought of returning.
Gregory added a few words, asking her to tell his father he was coming.
Poor fellow! he little knew what had taken place.
Those kind words smote Teresa like a whip and cut her to the heart. She
did her best to bear up against this dreadful news, but her eyes were
soon wet and streamed with telltale drops.
“How pleased she is that her goodman is coming!” the organist’s wife
said, with derisive emphasis.
At the words, she wept yet more abundantly, and took to flight that they
should not see her break down yet more. For a long time she went
crouching about the hedges.
“What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?” she cried helplessly, in bitter
pain.
Her goodman was coming ... and would learn everything! Terror, like a
destroying blast, swept over her at the thought. Her Yasyek was a
good-natured fellow, but very impetuous, like all the Ploshkas. Never
would he forgive the wrong done; he would kill him. “O Lord, have
mercy!” she cried, but without one thought for herself. Full of tears
and rent within her soul, she found her way after a time to Boryna’s
cabin. Hanka was out; she had left long since; Yagna was working at her
mother’s. Only Yagustynka and Yuzka were at home, spreading out linen to
bleach in the orchard.
She told them about Gregory, wishing to get away at once. But the old
woman took her aside, and said in a low and unusually kind tone:
“Teresa, control yourself; be reasonable. Evil mouths cannot be
prevented from speaking.... Your Yasyek will return, and will know all
in any case. Think of it: a lover is but for a month, a husband for
life. ’Tis good advice give.”
“What do ye mean?” she stammered, feigning not to understand.
“Do not pretend: we all know all about you both. Send Matthew about his
business while it is yet time. If ye do, Yasyek will not believe what
they say. He has been yearning for you; easily will you make him believe
anything! Matthew has had a liking for your bed, but is not bound to it:
get rid of him while you can.... A love! it passes by in a moment, as
yesterday has passed: were you to lay down your life for it, it would
not stay. A love—’tis but a Sunday dainty: who feeds on it daily will
care not for it at all.—Folk say: ‘Love of heart makes us smart: when we
wed, then we’re dead!’—It may be; but death with a goodman and children
is better than wild outlawed freedom.—Do not whimper, but save yourself
while it still is time. What if your man should cease to love you,
because of this your deed, and chase you from his home? Whither should
you go? To your ruin: to be the laughing-stock of everyone! Fool! Every
man has breeches: Matthew and Kuba, both alike: everyone swears the same
oaths, and is sweet as honey so long as his fondness endures.—Now think
well, and take to heart what I say; for I, your aunt, wish you well.”
But Teresa would hear no more. She fled away into the fields, and sat
down in the rye to give a free course to her grief.
But it was in vain that she attempted to think over Yagustynka’s advice.
Her passion for Matthew was such that the very idea of giving him up
made her writhe on the ground like a wounded beast.
Some time elapsed before the sounds of a quarrel close at hand made her
start to her feet.
Just in front of the Voyt’s cottage a fierce brawl was in progress.
The Voyt’s wife and Kozlova were loading each other with the fiercest
invectives.
Opposite to one another they stood, with the road and their respective
enclosures between them, clad only in their smocks and petticoats, each
panting with fury, reviling the other with all her might, and shaking
her fists at her.
The Voyt was loading his cart, and now and then glancing at a peasant
from Modlitsa, who, sitting in the porch, enjoyed the scene with keen
relish, and set the women on.
The cries were heard afar; and soon many a head peeped from behind the
neighbouring hedges and hut-corners.
And, Lord! how they both stormed! The Voyt’s wife, usually so quiet and
mild-tempered, was terribly on the rampage to-day, and her rage waxed
higher every minute; and Kozlova, as of set purpose, taunted and mocked
her, omitting nothing to increase her fury.
“Talk, talk, talk, my lady Voyt!” she called out; “talk away! There’s no
dog can outbark your ladyship!”
“Not a week goes by, but something is missing from my premises! Laying
hens—chickens—even an old goose—have disappeared. Aye, in my garden, in
my orchard, I have untold losses to put up with! Ah, may the wrong done
to me poison you! May it choke you to death!”
“Very good!—Screech, old crow! Screech, my lady Voyt! ’Twill soothe
you!”
“Why, this very day,” she said, addressing Teresa, who stood in the
road, “I had taken five pieces of linen out into the orchard to
bleach.... After breakfast, behold, I come out to sprinkle them—one is
missing!... I seek it!—Swallowed by the earth, as it were!—And lo, I had
weighted it with stones; and of wind there was none at all!... Good
linen, fine linen! Ye could get none better at any shop ... and behold,
it is gone!”
“Your eyelids are so puffed out with fat, you could not see it!”
“I could not, for you, thief, have stolen it!” she vociferated.
“I, a thief!—Say, oh, say that once more!”
“You thief! you thief! Thereto, and before all men, will I bear witness!
And that you’ll confess when I take you to jail in irons!”
“She—she has called me a thief!—People, have ye heard? As there’s a God,
I’ll bring an action for that.—Ye all have heard her. What, have I
robbed you, you blockhead? where are your witnesses?”
At that, the Voyt’s wife snatched up a stake, and dashed out into the
road with the rush of an infuriated dog, shrieking: “I’ll witness it on
you with my stick! I’ll prove it! I’ll....”
“Come on, my lady Voyt! Yah! only touch me, you pig! Only touch me, you
scarecrow of a bitch!” she cried, running forward likewise.
She pushed aside her goodman, who would have kept her back, and with
legs wide apart and arms akimbo, called out jeering:
“Strike me, strike me, my lady Voyt, and you’ll lie in jail for it!”
“Hold your peace, woman!” the Voyt interposed, “or I’ll send you off to
jail first!”
“Lock up your own mad dog, ’tis your duty; tie up your wife with a rope,
lest she bite!” Kozlova screamed, exasperated.
“Woman!” he shouted, threatening her. “When I speak, do respect my
office!”
“I spit on your office”—but the words used were bolder far—“do you
understand me? He threaten, he?—Look at him! He may just as well have
stolen the stuff himself to get his light-o’-love a smock! Why, the
money of the community is all gone that way; you have drunk it all, you
toss-pot!—Oh, we know about your doings, never fear!—Aye, you too, my
lord the Voyt, will lie in jail!”
This was the last straw: both of them flew at her like wolves. The
Voyt’s wife hit her first with her stick across the face, and then, with
a savage cry, went at her with her nails, while the Voyt belaboured her
wherever he could find a place.
Bartek flew instantly to the rescue of his wife.
They all three closed together like fighting dogs; no one could tell
whose fists, whose heads, were seen whirling through the air, nor whose
voices were bellowing. From fence to road, from road to fence, they went
staggering and tossing like sheaves blown along in a great wind, till in
their fury of fighting they fell to the ground on a sandheap.
Plunging in a cloud of dust, they were audible still with their
imprecations and invectives; but presently they got out into the road,
fighting and shrieking at the top of their voices.
At times one or other of them fell apart, and now and then they were all
upon their feet; then, clutching one another by the hair, or the throat,
or the nape of the neck, they began the battle again.
But all the village was soon aroused by the noise; women came hovering
helplessly around the battle-field; and at last men arrived and
separated the combatants.
But the curses and imprecations and wailings and threats went on, and
were beyond all description. The neighbours made off at once, fearing
they might be called in to bear witness: but throughout the village the
whisper went that the Voyt and his wife had given the Koziols a fearful
thrashing.
A few minutes later, the Voyt, with a swollen face, drove off
accompanied by his wife, also much battered and scratched, to depose
against their enemies.
About an hour afterwards, the Koziols started likewise: old Ploshka
having very kindly offered to take them to town gratis—to pay out the
Voyt for siding with the Squire.
They went to make their complaint, just as they were at the end of the
fight, and without doing anything to make themselves more presentable.
They drove slowly through the village, telling everybody, as they went,
about their ill-treatment, and showing the wounds received.
Koziol’s head was cut open to the bone, so that his face, neck, and
breast, visible through a rent in his shirt, were all covered with
blood. The hurt was in reality not great; but at every moment he would
press his side and moan:
“My God! I can bear no more! He has broken every one of my ribs!—Help,
good people, help! or I die!”
His wife then took up the lament.
“He took a club to beat him with!—Ah, poor man! be easy; you have had
much to suffer, but there’s justice to punish ruffians, there is!...
Yes, he meant to slay my man, and folk had hard work to prevent him from
doing it: as they will all testify in court.” These explanations she
would frequently interrupt with dreadful howls. Indeed, she was
disfigured almost past recognition: bareheaded, with tufts of hair torn
out scalp and all, her ears torn and bleeding, her eyes running blood,
and her whole face clawed, scratched, harrowed like a field. And though
all knew well what a “daisy” the woman was, the sight roused pity in
many a heart.
“Dear, dear! ’twas too bad to treat them so horribly!”
“A sin and a shame it is! They have been well-nigh killed.”
“Aye, they have been frightfully beaten. But is aught forbidden to my
lord the Voyt?—Such an official, such a great man?” Ploshka put in
maliciously, addressing the people.
They were completely bewildered, and remained astounded and upset long
after the Koziols had passed out of sight.
Teresa, who had taken cover during the fray, did not show her face till
both parties had gone.
She looked in at the Koziols’, Bartek being distantly related to her. No
one was in; but the three little children that Kozlova had just brought
with her from Warsaw, sat outside the cabin, huddled together, greedily
devouring some half-boiled potatoes, defending their food from the pigs
with their spoons, and crying out at them. They were so wretched, so
miserably neglected, so filthily dirty, that her heart pitied them, and
she took them into the passage, and shut them in from their foes; then
she ran off to tell the news.
At the Golabs’, there was no one but Nastka.
Matthew had, before breakfast, gone over to Staho (Bylitsa’s son-in-law)
to look over the ruined hut and see if anything could be done with it.
The old man, too, was with him, now and then stammering a word or two.
Mr. Yacek, sitting as usual at the threshold, smoked a cigarette and
whistled to the doves that circled about over the cherry-trees.
Noontide was not far off.
The heated air was quivering over the fields like rippling water; the
fields and orchard-grounds basked delightedly in the sunbeams; now and
again, a blossom fell from Bylitsa’s cherry-trees, flickering down like
a white little butterfly.
It was well past noon when Matthew had finished his examination. While
still poking the timbers here and there, he gave sentence:
“’Tis all rotten wood, crumbling to dust: ye can build nothing with it.
Quite useless.”
“Perchance,” Staho said anxiously, “I might buy some new timber, and
then....”
“Ye’d require timber for a whole cabin. Not one beam here is fit for
aught.”
“Gracious heavens!”
“But the lower beams may hold yet,” old Bylitsa faltered; “we should
only have to get new upper timbers, and clamp the woodwork together and
prop it up.”
“Then do so, if ye be so clever! I do not build with touchwood!” he
retorted, putting on his coat.
Here Veronka, lamenting bitterly, and holding a child in her arms, came
on the scene.
“What, alas! what shall we do now?”
“A new hut,” said Staho in sore distress, “would cost about two thousand
roubles.—Yet we might get some timber from our forest; and I could
manage for the rest.... An application to the Government Board....”
“But the forest is now in the hands of the law court: what timber would
they give us just now? Why, we are even forbidden to gather wood there
for fuel! Wait till a sentence is given, and then build!” was Matthew’s
advice.
“Indeed! Very fine!—And where shall we dwell this winter, I ask?” said
Veronka, with a fresh burst of tears.
No more was said. Matthew put his tools together, while Staho scratched
his head, and Bylitsa blew his nose round the corner.
In that moment, Mr. Yacek stood up, and raising his voice:
“Weep not, Veronka,” he said; “the timber for your cabin shall be
found!”
All stood open-mouthed, lost in amazement; till Matthew, recovering
himself first, burst out with a loud guffaw.
“Clever men promise, fools believe them!—He has not where to lay his
head, yet talks of giving cabins to others!” he cried roughly, staring
at him under his bent brows; but Mr. Yacek sat down again, went on
smoking and playing with his beard, his eyes fixed on the sky-line.
“In a little, he will promise you a whole farm!” Matthew said, with a
laugh and a shrug, as he left them.
He at once turned to the left along the path that led to the outhouses.
Few were at work in the gardens that day: there was but the red glint of
a stray petticoat, or the sight of a man here and there mending a roof,
or pottering about the granary gates, open to the fields.
Matthew was in no hurry; he loitered about willingly, chatting with the
neighbours on the topic of the Voyt’s battle, grinning and talking
merrily with lasses, or making such strong-flavoured jokes with the
elder women in the gardens that they could not help laughing; many a one
sighed and cast fond looks after him, as he passed out of sight.
And a handsome fellow indeed he was: built like an oak, and the king, as
it were, of all the young men in Lipka; first in strength (after Antek
Boryna); and as a dancer, not inferior to Staho Ploshka. And withal, a
man of much ability in every field of work; able to construct a cart, to
set up a chimney, to repair a cabin; and he played the flute beautifully
too. So, though he had next to no land at all, and was so open-handed
with everybody that he never put anything by, many a mother would have
gladly drunk with him the price of a calf, could she but have disposed
him favourably thereby towards marriage with her daughter; more than one
girl, too, had allowed him much intimacy, hoping to get the banns sooner
published.
All would not do. He drank with the mothers, made love to the daughters,
but on the question of marriage was slippery as an eel.
“’Tis hard to choose.—Each one has her good points; and others are
growing up, worth more than any.—I’ll wait,” he would say, when
match-makers beset him.
Then, the preceding winter, he had that entanglement with Teresa, and
lived almost openly with her, disregarding both gossip and cautions.
“When Yasyek comes, I’ll give her back to him, and he’ll stand me treat
into the bargain for having taken good care of her,” he once said
laughingly, shortly after his return. He was tired of her, and slowly
drifting apart.
And now, as he went in to dinner, he chose a longer way round, merely to
joke with the girls, and have some horse-play with those who would let
him.
And thus, quite unexpectedly, he came face to face with Yagna, weeding
her mother’s garden.
“Ah! Yagna!” he cried out, joyfully.
She suddenly shot up to her full height, tall and graceful as a
hollyhock.
“So you’ve noticed me? Oh, how very soon! Not more than a week since
your home-coming!”
“Why, you look lovelier than ever before!” he said in low tones of
wonder.
Her dress was tucked up to the knees; and beneath her red kerchief,
knotted under her chin, those great sweet turquoise eyes of hers looked
out, her white teeth gleamed between cherry lips, all her face glowed
apple-red—and so fair, it seemed asking to be kissed.
She boldly set her arms akimbo, and shot such irresistibly bright
glances at him as thrilled him through and through. Looking round
carefully, he drew nearer.
“For a whole week I have been seeking you—in vain!”
“Tell a dog lies: it may believe you.—Ha! the man goes grinning about
the gardens every evening; every evening he flatters another girl: and
now he’ll dare tell me ’tis not true?”
“Why, Yagna, is this your greeting to me?”
“Better fall on my knees and thank you for remembering I exist, eh?”
“Last year I had another welcome!”
“But this is not last year!” She turned away from him and hid her face.
He at once stepped forward, clasping her with eager arms.
She tore herself in anger from his grasp.
“Let me alone; Teresa would tear my eyes out because of you!”
“Yagna!” he sighed.
“Get back; make love to her, the soldier’s wife; render her every
service till he come back to her.—You were in prison, and she fed you
well: now must you make her some return!”
Each word of hers was like a blow, and uttered with such scorn that
Matthew, taken aback, could find no answer.
Shame took hold of him; he turned a dusky red, hung his head and took to
flight at once.
Though Yagna had but told him what she felt and had been feeling all the
week, she now regretted her words. Never had she expected he would have
been so offended as to leave her.
“Foolish one! I spoke but out of spite!” she thought, gazing sorrowfully
after him. “To be so angry all at once with me!—Matthew!”
Rushing away through the orchard as if running for his life, he did not
hear her call.
“That wasp! that vixen!” he growled, making straight for home now, anger
and astonishment alternately uppermost in his mind. Before, she had
always been so sweet, so mild! And now she had treated him like dirt. He
felt the shame so keenly that he looked round to make sure no one had
heard.
“And she reminded me of Teresa! Silly thing!—Teresa is naught to
me—naught but a toy!—How her eyes blazed! In what a posture she set her
arms!—Ah, it were no shame to be stung by such a one ... if only the
honey were forthcoming afterwards.” He was now close to his hut, and
slackened his pace.
“She was angry that I alluded to the past.—But was I in the wrong?... As
to Teresa”—here he made a wry face, as one who has gulped down
vinegar—“I have enough of that cry-baby. I have taken no oath to remain
with her, have I?... The tail sticks to the cow, but I am no cow’s
tail!... And then she has a goodman of her own; and I might get a public
rebuke from the pulpit on her account.... Such a woman is the ruin of a
man.—To the devil with women!” he concluded, in a most cantankerous
mood.
Dinner was not ready at home. He scolded his sister for dawdling, and
went in to Teresa, who was milking in the orchard, and raised to him
very sad tearful eyes.
“Whimpering again? And wherefore?”
She excused herself, looking on him fondly.
“Pay more attention: the udder squirts milk upon your petticoat.”
Why was he so unkind, so hard to her to-day? she wondered. What had come
over him? She was as gentle as could possibly be; yet he snapped her up
fiercely at every word she said.
He seemed looking about the orchard for something, but ever and anon
flung a furtive glance at her, and wondered more and more.
“Where had I mine eyes?... Such a paltry flabby thing!... Neither beauty
nor savour!... Raw-boned and sour-tasting!... Black as a gipsy, too; and
of carriage, none whatever!”
True, her eyes, and they alone, were beautiful; perhaps as much so as
Yagna’s: large, bright as a blue sky, and peering under black brows. But
as often as he met them, he turned aside and swore softly to himself.
“She rolls her eyes like a calf!”
Those looks of hers made him impatient and angry.
“I will not see them, I will not!—Yes, yes, ogle as much as you like, ye
will not catch me.”
They had dinner together, but he never spoke once to her, nor so much as
glanced in her direction. To Nastka he spoke, indeed, but no pleasant
words.
“A dog would not touch these groats: they are disgustingly burnt!”
“Only a little: just enough to have a taste.”
“Do not cross me!—And ye have put more flies than bacon-scratchings in
them!”
“What, do you object to flies now? Don’t be so very dainty! They will
not poison you.”
The cabbage dish, he then complained, had been cooked with rancid lard.
“Ye might as well have seasoned it with axle-grease!”
“You don’t know how that would taste? I do not, nor will I try,” she
returned sharply.
But he continued to seek every occasion to grumble. Teresa was dumb all
the time; so he set at her directly after dinner, seeing her cow rubbing
herself at the corner of the hut.
“She’s filthy with dung, crusted all over: can ye not rub her down?”
“Our byre is wet, and she gets dirty there.”
“Wet, indeed!” he vociferated. “There are pine-boughs enough in the
forest for dry fodder: but ye must wait for someone to collect them and
bring them here to you. And the beasts might rot their flanks off with
the dung meanwhile.—So many women in the hut, yet not a stiver’s worth
of cleanliness!”
But Teresa never answered back; she durst not defend herself, and only
begged his mercy with her eyes.
She was quiet and obedient, and as hard-working as an ant: she felt even
glad to see him so masterful and high-handed with her! Which was
precisely what angered him yet more. Those loving timorous eyes enraged
him; so did her quiet footsteps, her humble mien, her way of following
him about. He was on the point of crying out: “Away from my sight!”
“Blood of a dog!—Plague take it all!” he exclaimed at last; and, taking
up his tools, without any after-dinner rest, he passed over to the
Klembas’, where he had something to do about the hut.
They were all out in the yard, and at dinner still.
He sat down by the wall for a smoke.
The Klembas were talking of Gregory Boryna’s return from the army.
“What? home so soon?” he asked.
“Why, know ye not?” said old Klemba. “Together with Yasyek, Teresa’s
goodman, and Yarchyk from Vola.”
“They are to be here in harvest-time. This morning, Teresa went to get
the letter read by the organist, who told me about it.—That’s news for
you, that Yasyek is returning!” he blurted out.
A silence followed. All eyes were fixed on vacancy, and the women,
stifling their desire to laugh, turned very red. He gave no heed, and
seemed pleased at the news, remarking tranquilly:
“’Tis well that he returns: now they will peradventure cease from
slandering Teresa.”
Their spoons stopped, suspended in air over the dish, so confounded were
they all. He looked round him, unabashed, and then added:
“Ye are well aware how little they spare her. She is naught to me but a
distant relative on my father’s side. But if any dirty sneak should hint
at anything else, I’d stop his mouth so that he’d never forget it! But
women are the worst of all; they never spare another woman. Be she white
as snow, they would find means to foul her!”
“Quite so, quite so,” they replied, with their eyes upon the dish.
“Have ye been at Boryna’s yet?” he inquired, anxiously.
“I have long been about to go; but something always prevented me.”
“He suffers for us all, and we—we forget him!”
“And you—have you looked in there?”
“I?—Should I go in by myself, folk would say I was after Yagna!”
“As particular as a girl after she has tripped!” muttered old Agata, who
sat by the hedge, with a small bowl on her knees.
“Well, but I have enough of all this yelping.”
Klemba laughed. “The wolf,” he said, “changes his life when his teeth
are gone.”
“Or,” Matthew added, “when he thinks of settling down.”
“Ho, ho! we shall soon have you sending messengers to some lass?” young
Klemba cried in high glee.
“Aye, I am weighing the matter seriously.”
“Make your choice quickly, Matthew, and ask me to be your bridesmaid!”
piped Kate, the eldest daughter.
“Ah, but there’s the rub. All are equally excellent, and every one’s
better than the other. Magda’s the richest, but she’s toothless and
blear-eyed; Ulisia’s a flower, but has one hip too big, and no dowry but
a barrel of sourcrout; Franka has a baby; Mary is too friendly to all
the boys; Eva has a hundred _zloty_, all in coppers; but she’s a
sluggard, always lying abed. All would fain eat fat things, drink sweet
things, and do nothing. Oh, they are pure gold, these girls! And others
there are besides, nice, but not yet grown up.”
They all laughed till the pigeons flew off the roof.
“I say true. Till she is grown up, I care naught for a girl, be she ever
so comely.”
Here Dame Klemba rebuked him for talking of such things.
“Oh, I am only joking. And girls like these jokes, they say, as well as
any.”
At this the lasses were offended, and grew red as turkeys in angry
protest.
“A fine fellow he is: not one of us is good enough for him!”
“If there are none in Lipka you can like, then take one from elsewhere!”
they cried.
“But there are, there are! ’Tis easier to find an old maid here than a
silver _zloty_. Ah, how many there are! They every Saturday beautify
themselves at daybreak very thoroughly, and braid their hair, and chase
chickens through the orchard to barter with the Jew for vodka, and are
all the afternoon on the watch for messengers bringing a proposal. Why,
have I not seen them on the roofs, waving their kerchiefs at me, and
shouting: ‘Come to me, Matthew, come!’?—And the mothers, too, taking up
the cry: ‘To Kate first, Matthew, to Kate! I’ll add to her portion—a
cheese and eight eggs: Matthew, come to Kate!’”
The men were near splitting their sides with laughter, he amused them
so; but the girls, indignant, made such an uproar that old Klemba
interposed:
“Hush, girls! ye’re as noisy as magpies before rain.”
The din went on nevertheless. So, to end the squabble, he inquired:
“Were you present, Matthew, at the Voyt’s affray?”
“Not I. But the Koziols were very soundly swinged, they say.”
“Aye, swinged with a vengeance! They were awful to behold.—Well, well,
the Voyt has had his fling, i’ faith.”
“He has waxed fat on the Commune’s bread, and now he plays pranks!”
“Aye, indeed, he fears none. Who would stand up to him? Any other should
pay dear for such sport—he’ll not lose a hair thereby. He knows men in
office, and can do as he pleases here.”
“Because ye are but sheep to let him. He puts you down, and sets himself
above you all!”
“Having chosen him ourselves, we must respect his rule.”
“But they that set him up can put him down again.”
“Hush, Matthew, not so loud: folk may hear your words.”
“——And tell him. Then he’ll know what I have said.—Let him fall foul of
me, though, if he dare!”
“Matthias, who alone could have held against him, is at death’s door. No
one else would put himself forward: each has troubles enough of his
own,” the old man concluded, rising from his seat.
All rose with him, and went, some to rest awhile, some to stretch their
legs and loosen their girdles; others—the lasses—to wash the dishes in
the pond, and take a little recreation. But Matthew went directly to set
up props and stays for the cabin, while Klemba lit his pipe and sat on
the door-step.
As he puffed, his mind reverted to the late talk. “Who stands up for
others, shall have many bothers!” he growled.
The sun was high above the cabin, the afternoon hot. The orchards stood
motionless, the sunlight trembled through their rustling leaves, and
many a petal floated down upon the grass. Bees buzzed among the
apple-tree boughs; athwart the greenery, the mill-pond shimmered, and
the birds were all hushed. A pleasant afternoon drowsiness pervaded the
place.
Klemba, who wanted to keep awake, sauntered over to his potato-pit.
A little later he returned, puffing hard at his extinguished pipe, and
spluttering, and throwing back the long hair that had fallen over his
brow.
“Have you seen?” his wife asked him, peeping out at the door.
“I have. Our potatoes will only last us till harvest, if we cook them
but once a day!”
“Once a day only!”
“What’s to be done? We are so many!—Ten hungry mouths, the ravenous maws
beneath them!—We must think of something.”
“Not of the heifer, at any rate. I tell you, I will not have her sold.
Do what ye will, the cattle must not go!”
He waved his hands, as if to drive away an importunate wasp; when she
had gone, he lit his pipe again.
“A pig-headed old thing!... If needs must.... A heifer’s no holy thing
to die for!”
The sun now shone in his eyes; he only turned his back, and puffed more
slowly. Loosening his girdle (the meal of potatoes lay heavy upon him),
he began to nod. The doves cooed on the thatch, and the leaves were
quivering with slumberous murmurs.
“Thomas!”
It was Agata’s voice. He opened his eyes. She was sitting beside him,
with an anxious look.
“These months before harvest are hard times for you,” she said. “If ye
are willing, I have a little money: ye could take it. I was keeping it
for my burial; but if ye are so hard pressed, I’ll lend it. Why sell the
heifer? I stood by when she was dropped; she’s of a good race of
milkers. Perchance I may, God willing, live on till harvest ... and then
ye will give the money back. ’Tis no shame, even for a farmer, to take
from his own folk, when in need. So here!” And she pressed into his hand
three roubles, all in silver _zloty_.
“Nay, take it back: I shall manage.”
“Here, I can add half a rouble more. Take it,” she begged him in a
whisper.
“Nay. But thanks notwithstanding. It is exceeding kind of you.”
“There, then: here are thirty _zloty_ all told: pray take them!” She
looked into her money-bag, counting out five-kopek bits and keeping down
her tears. It was a hard sacrifice for her; every coin she told out gave
her a sharp pang.
The money glittered very temptingly in the sun. His eyes shone with
desire as he gloated over them; they were all new bright pieces. But,
heaving a deep sigh, he mastered himself with a great effort, and said
to her:
“Hide all that carefully, or folk may see it, and peradventure rob you.”
She still went on imploring him in a low voice; but he said no more, and
she slowly put her treasures back again.
“Wherefore will ye not dwell with us?” he asked her, after a while.
“How can I? I am good for nothing, not even to follow the geese—I am
very weak, expecting my end day by day. It would truly be more pleasant
to die amongst one’s own kinsfolk: much more. Yea, even in the stall
where the heifer has been.—And I have forty _zloty_ ready for my burial:
perhaps ’twould also suffice for a Mass ... as befits a farmer’s
kinswoman!... I should leave my feather-bed to you.... Fear ye not: I
should fall asleep quietly amongst you, and sooner than ye expect; very
soon....” she faltered anxiously, waiting with a throbbing heart for him
to say: “Stay with us!”
He did not, but made as if he had not followed the drift of her rambling
talk; and stretched himself, and yawned, and walked uneasily about
before the hut, the barn, the hayrick....
She sobbed and moaned plaintively. “How could he, indeed? He, a
husbandman of such repute—and I, a wretched beggar-woman!”
And thereupon she started on her daily search for some place in the
village where she could die in good odour, as a respectable
peasant-woman.
On and on she crawled to find some such nook, and ever drifting about
like gossamer in the gale, to stick fast no one knows where.
People joked about her, and enjoyed saying that she ought to stay with
her family, and telling the Klembas, with mock friendship:
“Why, she is of your family, and she has money for her funeral besides,
and then she will not trouble you very long. Where else should she be
but with you?”
Dame Klemba thought of those words, when her goodman told her at night
of what Agata had said that day. They were in bed at the time, their
children had begun to snore, and she whispered to persuade him:
“There will be room for her.... She may lie in the hay.... Or we shall
drive the geese out into the shed.—For her food, she wants next to
naught.... And she cannot drag on very long.... Moreover, she will be
buried at her own cost.—So people will not speak against us.... And
then, the feather-bed would be ours: we could not easily get such
another one.” This she pointed out to him very eagerly.
In answer, Klemba merely snored at the time; but in the morning he said:
“If Agata were quite destitute, I should take her in; it were then God’s
will, and I could not do otherwise. But, as things stand, they will say
we have taken her in for the sake of what she leaves us. As it is, they
blame us for having let her go and beg.—Nay, it cannot be.”
Klembova obeyed her husband in all things, but she sighed bitterly over
the feather-bed lost to them, and got up to hurry the girls out to their
work; for that day they had to plant the cabbages.
It was then May weather at its best. The breeze blew, stirring the corn
in rippling waves. The orchards whispered as they waved, and shook down
their blossoming petals; and heavy clusters of lilac and bird-cherry
blossoms filled the air with perfume. From the fields, songs came borne
on the wind; and in the smithy, the hammer rang on the anvil. Since
morning, the roads had been full of people and racket, and the women
wended their way to the cabbage patches, bearing young plants with them
in sieves and baskets.
Before the morning dew was quite dry, the black fields, cut into many a
furrow full of water sparkling in the sunshine, were dappled all over
with red aprons and skirts.
Dame Klemba went with her daughters, the while her goodman with his sons
were helping Matthew to repair their cabin.
Old Klemba, however, presently finding the sun too hot, called Balcerek
and went over to see Boryna.
“A fine day, friend,” he said, taking a pinch from Balcerek’s snuff-box.
“Splendid. But let’s hope this great heat will not last.”
“Rain is falling on all sides: our turn must come soon.”
“Yet it looks like drought: the trees are covered with insects.”
“And the vegetables, how late they have come up! A drought would destroy
them. But, by God’s grace, it may not come to that.”
“Well, and what of the fair? Any news of your horse?”
“I gave the police officer three roubles, and he gave me promises.”
“We have naught in safety! We live in constant alarm, as hares do, and
there’s no help for it.”
“Our Voyt is a mere figure-head,” suggested Balcerek, in low cautious
tones.
“We ought,” Klemba rapped out, “to seek another.”
Balcerek gave him a warning look; but he went on, excitedly:
“He brings the village to shame.—Have ye heard what he did yesterday?”
“Oh, his brawl? that’s naught.—But there’s more, and we may have to pay
dear for his spell in office.”
“But there are checks on him: the cashier, the scrivener, the rest of
the council.”
“Like dogs set to watch over meat! Aye, they’ll watch so well that we
peasants will have in the end to pay for their negligence.”
“What’s to be done?—Any other news?”
Balcerek spat and tossed up his hand; he cared little to talk, being a
cross-grained man, and henpecked besides, which made him still more
taciturn.
They arrived at Boryna’s. In the porch, Yuzka was peeling potatoes.
“Ye may go in; Father is lying there alone. Hanka is out planting
cabbages, and Yagna working at her mother’s.”
The room looked very empty. A lilac-bough now and then peeped in at the
window, and the sunlight filtered in through the verdure outside.
The old man lay as usual, but much emaciated, with his grey beard
bristling all over his discoloured cheeks. His head was still bandaged,
and his ashen lips were moving as if to speak.
They greeted him. No answer, no movement in reply.
“Do ye not know us?” said Klemba, taking his hand.
He seemed totally unconscious, or lost in rapt listening to the
twittering swallows, building their nests under his thatch, or the
brustling of the leaves against the wall outside.
“Matthias!” Klemba said, shaking him slightly.
The sick man started, his eyelids quivered, he looked round at them.
“Do ye hear?—This is Klemba, this Balcerek, your companions: surely ye
know us!”
They waited a little, gazing into his eyes.
“Boys!” he cried suddenly, in a thundering voice. “See me here alone! To
the rescue! Smite them, those sons of dogs! smite them!” He raised his
arms as to ward off a blow, and fell back on his bed.
At the cry, Yuzka rushed in, and put fresh moist bandages on his head.
And now, once more, he lay quite motionless: in his wide-open eyes there
gleamed an expression of intense fear.
They went away, distressed and disheartened.
“Why,” said Klemba, “he is no longer a living man ... he’s a corpse!”
Vitek’s stork was stalking about the orchard; the wind now and then
swept the branches into the open windows to shade them.
Back they went, plunged in sad silent thought, as if they had been to
visit a grave.
“We must all come to this!” Klemba said at last.
“Truly,” sighed the other. “He has perished, and others gain thereby.”
“‘A goat dies once, and then—never again!’”
“We too shall follow him shortly.”
And they looked with hardening eyes at the world around; at the waving
corn; at the forest, clear-cut and plain in the distance; at the
green-growing fields, and at the bright warm day of springtide: and
their spirits settled down in a stony resignation to the will of God.
“No; man cannot shun what is to be.”
And so they parted.
Others, too, both on that day and afterwards, came to visit the dying
man: but he recognized no one, and at last they came no longer.
The priest had said: “All he needs is prayers for a speedy departure.”
And as everyone was full of his own cares and troubles, they naturally
forgot him, or spoke of him as of one dead.
Who was there, indeed, to take thought of him?
There were even days when he remained without a drop of water, and might
have died of starvation, but for the kind heart of Vitek, who would
snatch up anything he could get and take it to “Master”; and he would
sometimes milk the cows in secret, and bring him to drink. He was indeed
filled with attention and respect for the sufferer, and with disquietude
also: which made him at last question Pete:
“Is’t true that whosoever dies without confession must go to hell?”
“Most true. Why, the priest tells us so in church ever so often.”
“Then ... Master shall also go to hell?” And he crossed himself in
dismay.
“He’s a man like any other!”
“What? Master a man like any other?”
“You are as senseless as a cabbage-head!” said Pete, growing angry; for
he saw that Vitek did not believe him....
And thus did the days go by at Boryna’s cabin.
The village meanwhile, on account of the Voyt’s battle, was in a state
of great animation, each party eagerly looking for witnesses in its
favour.
It was of no great importance in itself: yet the Voyt exerted himself
with might and main; and his influence in Lipka proved so considerable
that more than half the inhabitants were on his side. They knew him to
be no saint; but he was their Voyt all the same, and able to make things
hot for opponents. So, by dint of insistence, flattery, and vodka, he
got together as many witnesses as he required.
Koziol was very ill in bed, and the priest had been to him with the last
sacraments. As to that illness, opinions differed: some went so far as
to whisper low that it was only a feint to give the Voyt more
trouble.—But who knew really what to think of it?
In the meantime Kozlova was going about all day, telling the people that
she had sold her sow and farrow to purchase medicines for her goodman;
and well-nigh daily she stationed herself outside the Voyt’s house,
loading him with invectives, shrieking that her Bartek was about to die,
and calling God and all honest people to witness in her favour and take
sides with her.
Only the riff-raff of the community, however, and a few tender-hearted
women, were with her; Kobus also, a third-rate farmer and a most
litigious and quarrelsome man. The others would not listen to her. Some
paid no notice to what she said; others, in her own interest, advised
her to make friends with the Voyt.
Many broils arose thence; for Kobus had an ungovernable tongue, and was
very ready with his fists; while the women, on their side, used
extremely violent language. Their anger and acrimony were most intense:
for how could they hope to get the better of the farmers and the Voyt
together?
In the end, the Jew himself treated the Koziols with contempt, and
refused them credit.
Within a week after the battle, everyone had enough of the affair, and
the complaints and lamentations connected therewith, and would not
listen any longer.
But at that juncture, new helpers came, and the village was again in an
uproar.
Ploshka, joining forces with the miller, now stood up openly and
strongly for the Koziols.
Not that they cared for their cause in the least: each had his own aims
and sought his own advantage.
Ploshka, an underhanded and much-aspiring man, put unbounded trust in
his own wealth and cleverness: and as to the miller, he would have
risked his life for money.
And thus the struggle between the two parties began, fierce, yet
courteous: they treated each other to shows of friendship, and conversed
as before, and even went sometimes arm in arm to the tavern together.
The shrewder Lipka folk were soon aware that this coalition aimed at
something more than the mere redress of Koziol’s grievance—possibly at
the Voyt’s office itself.
And the elders nodded their heads, saying:
“One man has made a good thing by the office: others may do so too!”
And as the days passed by, the village dissensions increased.
Once, about that time, there came round to every hut the news that there
were Germans stopping at the tavern.
As someone guessed, they were no doubt bound for Podlesie.
The people were taken with a fit of uneasy curiosity. The news flew from
orchard to orchard, it was discussed over the fences, and many a one
hurried to the tavern to see.
It was true. Five large tilted wagons, each painted yellow and blue, and
fitted with iron axle-trees, stood outside the inn. They were laden with
articles of furniture, and women were sitting inside. In the tavern bar,
ten Germans were drinking.
They were tall, stout, bearded fellows, clad in dark-blue capotes, with
silver chains that dangled from their bulging waists, and faces that
literally shone with good feeding.
The peasants stood grouped together at a distance from them, calling for
vodka, looking on and listening to their talk, but unable to make
anything out. Matthew, who could speak Yiddish, tried speech with them
by that means, and so fluently that the tavern-keeper looked at him in
amazement. The Germans eyed him, but answered nothing. Gregory, the
Voyt’s brother, then said a few German words to them: at which, grunting
among themselves as swine do over a trough, they turned their backs on
the peasants.
Matthew took fire at this. “Let’s punch their snouts for them!” he
cried.
“Aye; or tickle their sides with a cudgel to make them speak.”
And Adam Klemba, a fiery young fellow, exclaimed:
“I’ll hit this nearest one in the stomach; and if he strikes back, ye
all come in for fair play.”
But they restrained him; and the Germans, probably guessing some harm
was intended them, took with them a barrel of beer, and left the place.
“Hey, ye Long Trousers, do not hurry so: they might fall down by the
way!”
And as they drove off, the peasants shouted after them:
“Breed of swine!”
No sooner had they left than the Jew informed the peasants that the
Germans had almost completed the purchase of Podlesie: fifteen families
were to settle on that farm.
“And then we shall be hemmed in and squeezed to death on our poor strips
of land, while they stretch and multiply over those broad acres!”
“Then let us bid higher and keep them out!” said Staho Ploshka to
Gregory, who had spoken last. “Use your wits, since ye think yourself
clever!”
“Blood of a dog!” Matthew shouted, thumping the bar with his fist; “’tis
a ruinous business, this! If they settle down in Podlesie, ’twill be a
hard thing for us to keep our homesteads in Lipka.” Of this he was sure:
he had been about the world, and knew what Germans were.
His hearers were at first incredulous. All the same, it troubled them,
and they fell a-thinking: how could evil come to them in Lipka from
neighbours in Podlesie?
Every day, herdsmen and wayfarers came to tell how the lands of Podlesie
were being measured, and landmarks laid down, and wells dug. Of this,
too, so many as wandered out of curiosity in the direction of Vola had
ocular demonstration.
But what was the true situation of affairs? That as yet they had not
ascertained.
They urged the smith to find out, for he had made friends with the
Germans and shod their horses; but he fought shy, and either learned or
told them nothing.
It was Gregory who at last sought information and got at the truth.
The fact was that the Squire owed a certain German fifteen thousand
roubles, which he could not pay. The latter proposed taking Podlesie for
the debt, and paying the difference in ready money. The Squire seemed
inclined to agree to this, but secretly looked out for some other
purchaser, the German offering only sixty roubles an acre.
“He will have to agree,” Gregory declared. “The Manor is swarming with
Jews, all crying out for their money. And the forester told me the Manor
cows had been attached for the taxes. How, then, can he pay them?
Everything is sold! And he may not cut down the forest, so long as his
lawsuit with us is not ended.—No, he must sell Podlesie at any price.”
“Why, such land is worth a hundred roubles an acre!”
“Then buy it at that price, and he will be only too glad to sell!”
“Alas, money is short! Whence is it to come?”
“So then, the Germans must get all, and we nothing!”
They talked on, with sad forebodings. How hard it was that such land
should be lost to them—so near, so fruitful, so suitable for their sons
and sons-in-law! They could have founded another village there, with
fertile meadows and water in abundance.... But there, all was of no
avail! The Germans were there, they would get the upper hand and crush
the life out of the poor peasants.
“And whither shall all these go?” the old men murmured sadly, looking on
while their children played about the roads in the evening—so numerous
that the huts could scarce contain them. “But how is it possible to
purchase any land, since we get barely enough to live on out of ours?”
They cudgelled their brains not a little; they even went to the priest
for advice. But he could give them none. “Out of an empty pot, nothing
is ever got!”
“Ah! ‘money makes the mare go’; but, ‘wherever the poor man goes, the
wind against him blows!’”
Useless complaints, useless lamentations!
To make matters worse, the weather grew excessively hot: July weather in
May. The sun rose in the very East, a vast fire in the azure: on every
height, in all sandy soil, the vegetables drooped and faded. The grass
was sear and burnt upon the fallows; and the potato-plants, which had at
first sprouted well, hardly covered the ground with their poor puny
shoots. The autumn-sown lands were alone to suffer little; being already
in the ear, they grew splendidly and very high: the low cottages they
surrounded seemed to have shrunk yet lower, crouching earthwards with
only their roofs well above the forest of waving corn.
The nights being so hot and sultry that it was painful to lie in the
huts, people slept in the orchards.
As a consequence of the great heats, of those troubles which beset them
in troops, and also of the hard times preceding the harvest (harder than
usual that year), it came to pass that the people of Lipka quarrelled
and fought among themselves more than ever. Everyone seemed to enjoy
thwarting his neighbour, and life there became a real torment. From the
peep of day, the village rang with bickerings and angry words, some new
contest taking place every day. Now it was Kobus and his wife, who had
such a set-to that the priest had to go and rebuke and reconcile them;
now Balcerek’s wife, who came to blows with Gulbas over a pig that had
strayed into her carrot-patch; now Ploshkova, who had a row with the
Soltys, on account of their goslings’ getting mixed: besides countless
wrangles about the children, or unneighbourly behaviour, or anything
that could serve for a squabble and outcries and noisy invectives. There
seemed to be a curse on the village, bringing no end of altercations,
breaches of the peace, and lawsuits.
Ambrose even made fun of this waspish disposition before strangers.
“This year times are not so very hard for me before harvest, by the
goodness of Providence! No one dies, no one is born, no one is married;
but they daily offer me vodka, and flatter me, and beg me to bear
witness for them! Let them but wrangle so a few years more, and I shall
have drunk myself to death!”
Lipka was in a bad way indeed; but things went worst of all at
Dominikova’s.
Simon had returned with the others, Andrew’s leg was well now; they were
not in sore straits as others were, and things ought to have gone on as
of old. Far from it! Her sons would no longer obey her. They were grown
rebellious, always at loggerheads with her, objected to being beaten,
and refused to do woman’s work!
“Ye must hire a maidservant,” they said tartly, “or do the work
yourself.”
Now Dominikova had ruled them with a rod of iron, and tyrannized over
them for many a year; so she was very much shocked to see her own
children rise up against her now.
“Grant me patience!” she would scream on such occasions, flying in a
rage, and taking up her stick; but they made stout resistance, and were
as stubborn as she. Every day there were fearful quarrels, hunts all
over the premises, and so on, till the neighbours would rush in to
smooth matters over.
The priest himself called her sons to him, and exhorted them to live in
concord and obedience. They heard him out with patient respect, kissed
his hand and humbly embraced his knees as in duty bound; but they
behaved as before.
“We are no children; we know what to do, and Mother must yield. Why, the
whole village was making laughing-stocks of us!”
Choler and exasperation had made the old dame yellow as a quince. Do
what she might, she could not get the better of them; and now, instead
of attending church services or gossiping as she had been accustomed,
she had to work at home! She was always calling on Yagna to assist her;
but from her too she got shame and sorrow in plenty.
The Voyt would look in frequently, to take her advice, he said: in
reality, to get Yagna out with him, and play pranks with her in the
garden.
Nothing can be hidden in a village: all knew perfectly well what was
going on. And their guilty love becoming more and more openly
scandalous, certain good people spoke several times to the old woman on
the subject.
What was she to do? Yagna, notwithstanding prayers and supplications,
flaunted her wantonness as though to spite her mother. The most grievous
sin, the most shameful obloquy, was preferable in her eyes to staying by
that husband whom she loathed.
Hanka too did nothing to oppose this state of things, and said so
openly.
“So long as there is no one to prevent the Voyt from wasting the
community’s money, she may do as she pleases. He grudges her naught,
fetches her all he can from town, and would, if he could, put her in a
frame of gold. Let them have their sport ... and see the end of it!—I
have naught in common with them!”
And truly, she had troubles enough of her own. She had given the lawyer
whatever he asked, but could as yet not tell when Antek was to be tried,
nor what destiny awaited him. And meanwhile he was pining away in
prison, hoping God would have mercy on him.—In the cabin, besides,
things went ill.
Pete had grown insolent of late—no doubt the smith had tampered with
him; he did no more work than he chose. Once she had been in town: he
had spent the whole day out of doors; and as she threatened to call him
to account before Antek on his return:
“On his return?” was the jeering reply. “Bandits are never set free in
such wise!”
The impertinent words made her blood boil, and she would have longed to
strike him on the mouth; but what good would that have done? She had to
pocket her affronts, till the right time should come. Otherwise, the man
would leave, and all would be thrown on her hands. She could hardly
manage to pull through as it was, and her health was breaking down under
the strain. “Steel is devoured by rust, and rocks last but for a
season”; how, then, could a feeble woman hold out for ever?
One day—May was then drawing to an end—the priest had driven off with
the organist to a local festival. Ambrose had been drinking so deep with
the Germans (who now looked frequently in at the tavern) that he was not
there to toll the evening Angelus, nor to open the church-door for the
May service!
It was therefore decided to have the service in the burying-ground,
where, close to the lich-gate, there stood a little shrine containing a
statue of the Mother of God. Every May, the girls adorned it with paper
ribbons and a gilt crown, and cast wild flowers all around, doing
likewise all they could to preserve it from complete ruin. It was of
great antiquity, and so cracked and crumbling and dilapidated that the
birds no longer made their nests in it; and if a shepherd-boy ever took
shelter there, it was only during the autumn rains. To some extent it
was screened from the winter storms by the churchyard trees, the old
lindens, some slender birches, and a few crosses which stood near,
leaning out of the perpendicular.
A good many people had assembled, and quickly decked the shrine with
flowers and verdure; and, having placed a taper and some small lamps at
the feet of the statue, they knelt down piously.
The blacksmith bent in front before the threshold, sprinkled with tulips
and eglantine blossoms; and he struck up a hymn.
It was then much after sunset, and growing dark; but the sky was still
burning and golden in the West, with pale emerald higher up. All was
very still; the long locks of the birches streamed down in cascades, and
the corn stooped down, as though listening to the shrill quavering of
the crickets.
The herds were wending their way home; and from field and village and
pathways now unseen, there floated the graziers’ noisy songs, mingled
with long melancholy lowings. And the people looked into their Mother’s
face, and lifted up their voices, while she stretched her hands out in
benediction over the world.
“Good night, O Lily white!
Good night!”
The scent of the young birch-trees filled the air, and the nightingales
began to try their notes, first in broken bursts, then gathering force,
and finally breaking out into foaming streams of golden
euphony—wonderful trills of long-drawn music, of melody dropping like
pearls; while at no great distance resounded the violin of Mr. Yacek,
which accompanied the human singers so sweetly, so gently, and so
powerfully at once, it seemed that it came from the rye-stalks rustling
against each other, or that the soil itself were breathing that chant of
May.
All then sang together in ecstasies: the people, the birds, the violin;
and when they paused to take breath awhile, an innumerable choir of
frogs raised their husky voices all in tune and whirringly, as if
hurrying them on to begin again.
So the chant went on—now these singers, now those.
The service lasted very long, and in the end the smith called out more
than once to those behind him:
“Pray, do not drag the words so!” For many of them were lengthening out
the notes beyond measure.
His remark to Matthias Klemba went even farther: “Don’t bellow so;
you’re not following the oxen!” And at last they sang together all in
harmony, and their voices were like a flock of doves soaring up in the
dusky sky.
“Good night, O Lily white!
Good night!
Mary, our hearts’ delight,
Good night!”
It was now black overhead, warm, and very quiet; but a few stars began
to appear and sparkle and twinkle like dewdrops.
The girls in couples, arms about waists, sang together as they went
home.
Hanka was returning alone, carrying her baby and absorbed in thought,
when the smith approached and walked by her side.
She held her peace until close to her home; then, seeing him still
beside her, she said:
“Are ye coming in, Michael?”
“Only into the porch,” he answered in a low tone; “I have to speak with
you.”
She felt somewhat agitated. Had he any fresh misery in store for her?
“You have probably been to see Antek,” he said.
“Yes, but was not let in.”
“’Tis what I feared!”
“Say, then, what ye know!” She was shaking with apprehension.
“What I know? Only so much as I could get out of the police inspector.”
“And what is that?” She pressed her little one closer.
“That Antek is not to be released until after the trial.”
“How is that?” she stammered hoarsely. “The lawyer told me the
contrary.”
“’Tis because he would take to flight. In such cases, a prisoner is
never set at liberty. Bear in mind that I come to you as a friend
to-day.—Bygones are bygones.... Though you will see one day that I was
right.... But hear what I have to say now: I am speaking the truth as in
the confessional.—Antek is in a very sorry plight, and sure to be
cruelly punished: perchance for ten years! You hear?”
“I do, and believe not one word,” she said, with sudden self-control.
“Seeing is believing; and I have told you the truth.”
“After your fashion,” she replied, smiling ironically.
He seemed offended, and assured her warmly that he had come for no other
purpose but to give her friendly advice. She listened as he talked,
looking round impatiently; the cows lowed unmilked in their byres, the
geese were still out of doors, the colt and Lapa sporting in the
enclosure, and the little ones playing in the barn: while of all he was
telling her she believed nothing. “But I’ll let him talk on,” she
thought, “till I find out what he’s aiming at”; and she held herself on
the alert.
“What is to be done?” she asked mechanically.
“There is something,” he whispered.
She faced him suddenly.
“Pay down enough money, and he will be released even before the trial.
And then he can escape. Even to ‘Hamerica’! They will not catch him
there.”
“Lord! to ‘Hamerica’!” she cried, appalled.
“Hush! I tell you in great secrecy. ’Tis what the Squire said to me.
‘Let him get away,’ he said; ‘ten years of Siberia will ruin any man’s
life.’ ... That he told me but yesterday.”
“What! and flee from our village ... our children ... our lands?” It was
the only misfortune that appealed to her.
“Pay the sum wanted, and Antek will do all the rest.—Give it to them.”
“But where—where am I to get it?... O my God!... Away to the very back
of the world.... So far from everyone!”
“They ask for five hundred roubles. Why, ye have father-in-law’s money:
take it and pay; we shall reckon together later—only save Antek!”
She saw the trap, and started to her feet.
“Obstinate dog! Always on the same trail!” she said, about to leave him.
“This is foolishness!” he exclaimed, losing patience. “’Twas but a word
that escaped me. Must ye take offence at a word, when your man is
rotting in jail?—Oh, he shall know how much ye do to set him free!”
She sat down again, quite bewildered.
He talked to her for some time about “Hamerica,” and folk he knew that
had gone there, who wrote letters home, and even sent their families
money. Antek might get away at once; Michael knew a Jew who had wafted
many a one over the frontier. Multitudes got away thus. Hanka, too,
might follow later, without attracting attention. Gregory would return
from the army, and repay all from the inheritance; or if he could not, a
purchaser would readily be found.
“Take ye counsel of the priest,” he concluded; “he will approve my plan,
as ye will see. I have only urged you to do right, and for no profit of
my own.—But breathe not a word of this to anyone else, or the gendarmes
will know of it. And then he would not get out of prison at all, and be
perchance put in irons into the bargain,” he concluded grimly.
“But where is the money to come from that will set him free?” she said,
with a groan.
“I know a man in Modlitsa who would lend it—at high interest. Oh, the
money can be found! I’ll lay my life I could manage that!”
For a long while he went on counselling her, and at last slipped away
abruptly. She, lost in thought, took no note of his going.
Everybody else had gone to bed, except Vitek, who seemed to be waiting
for his mistress. The moon went up through the heavens, a silver
reaping-hook moving athwart the deep expanse. Over the meadows crept
white sheets of mist; above the rye was hanging the dust of its saffron
pollen; moveless as an ice-field, the mill-pond glittered amongst the
trees. Broken by the nightingales’ rills of bubbling music, the silence
made the ears ring and tingle.
“Heavens! To flee one’s village, and one’s land—and all!” she thought,
the same idea ever returning; and her dread grew more intense, and she
felt her trembling heart shrink in the clutch of pain.
Lapa then howled aloud; the birds sang no more, and the gales whistled
and moaned among the dark shadows of the branches.
“Lapa now sees Kuba’s ghost!” Vitek muttered, and crossed himself with
awe.
“Foolish one! go to bed!” said Hanka.
“But indeed he does come, and looks after the horses, and brings them
their fodder. Aye, and not once only!”
She took no notice of his words. All was now plunged in deep stillness;
and there she sat, repeating, as one paralysed with appalling anguish:
“To flee a whole world away!—And for ever, merciful Jesus!—For ever!”